


Rendezvous

by midmorningstar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Buckets, Bulges and Nooks, Can those two things go together? Yes. Yes they can., Casual Sex, Come inflation (minor), Government-mandated sex, Other, POV Second Person, Please keep this in mind I beg, Present Tense, Safe Sane and Consensual, Self-insertion, Stuffing, This gets deep into troll sex biology headcanons and is VERY much a "don't like don't read"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midmorningstar/pseuds/midmorningstar
Summary: If you believed in luck, you would call yourself lucky to have found someone like them. You don't, so you'll count yourself grateful instead.Shupaa sees her arranged partner for drone season. Porn with feelings and fluff, maybe not necessarilyplot.





	Rendezvous

Pallas was a mercenary, like you. They took whatever jobs came their way. They did a lot of bodyguarding, from what you remember, though you rarely worked with them.

 

Unlike you, they could lift your whole body, metal and flesh, and they  _ loved _ to prove that.

 

"Long time, no see," they say, holding you so you're sitting on their forearm, high enough that your head is above theirs. They aren't built like a bodybuilder until they're using their muscles, and then, under their more subtly muscular shapes, you can see the strain of sweeps of work. They're only a degree above jade, and scarcely enough to escape the caverns as they did. You can only assume they were categorized by a trick of the light.

 

They're beautiful. They've always been beautiful.

 

You lean in until you can lift their chin with the knuckles of your hand and kiss them. It's short and quick, for fear that, should you linger, you might freeze them.

 

"Work has remained bus-y," you excuse yourself.

 

"Got some alterations?" they ask, looking up at your lights. Always observant. "Oof." They start to struggle with your weight. You grab onto their shoulders to steady yourself, while they lower you to the ground.

 

"In a sense." Your hands don't linger on their shoulders, but theirs linger on your sides. You tell them about leaving Arctophi. They don't approve, but you inform them that you don't care. You tell them the protocols that changed your colored lights have been removed by an independent tech, and they raise an eyebrow.

 

"You would trust someone in your head like that?"

 

"You do not have implants," you point out. "At some point, it is no longer a matter of trust, but of tolerance, and compromise."

 

"Fair," they concede, "but still. And you're okay?"

 

This is the hard part. "Functional." That answer is never enough for them.

 

With a hand on the side of your face, their thumb plays with the hair tufts that settle in your face.

 

"Be more careful," they ask you.

 

"This is an impossible request," you reply, looking back into their cool, green-tinted eyes, "and you know this."

 

"I know."  _ But _ hangs in the air, unsaid.

 

"So it will not be honored," you finish. No matter how close you might be with them, that's the weight that always makes the difference. You live dangerously. Pallas doesn't, not anymore. Pallas has a new job in an office, security, a public face,  _ friends. _ You  _ are _ security for someone else. It's the reason you only see them for drone days, and the few, precious meetings in-between. You could never be quadranted. You would drive each other mad.

 

Drone day partners don't kiss excessively. Your bond is casual and fleeting. It means, when you  _ do _ kiss, it's a greeting, a farewell, or a message. It means, when Pallas lifts your chin, more gentle than when you did it, when they press their lips to yours, they're making one last-ditch effort to plead. They're not the religious type, but you might call it a prayer.

 

"I promised I wouldn't keep you long." They push back your hair and look in your eyes. "Let's get this over with. You're busy. You have something to go back to."

 

There's a pang there. Pallas has seen you leave too early so many times. You had an assignment, or training, or maintenence... but for the first time, you don't.

 

You swallow your pride, and pause their hand as they start to pull away, touching it gingerly with your fingertips. Frost rolls from your breath, but their skin doesn't freeze.

 

"More... time," you start, tentative, "is permitted on this occasion. Should you wish to take it."

 

As predicted, they stare at you, as if trying to discern if you were really Shupaa. You are, or at least, you think so. There's nothing to see.

 

"Are you sure? But it's unnecessary. You don't need to do this for me, I'll be fine."

 

You let your hand move to their jacket. With one of your hands and one of theirs, it slides off their shoulders.

 

You don't smile, not ever, but something in your voice sounds like you should be. "It might be said that something has changed my mind."

 

They smile. They put their jacket off to the side, and with eagerness, they start undoing their belt latch. "If you're sure," they say, "I think that sounds fun. You're a nice partner, Shupaa. Even with the weird ice stuff. If you want to stay, you're welcome to."

 

In your amusement, your exhale comes out colder than a normal breath, and quicker. It isn't a laugh, in the conventional sense of the word, but it's close enough that you hear Pallas laugh too. "What?"

 

"Your compliments are so mi-ld man-nered," you reply. You undo your jacket, look down at your shirt, and try to make a decision. It's safer, you think, to keep it on - for them. You don't want to show too much skin. "This is not a bus-i-ness arrangement."

 

"Would you prefer if it was?" They're grinning. They step up to you, belt undone and skirt still zipped, and leave it, forgotten, to put their hands on your face. "Oh, baby," they croon, hushed like a secret, "Tell me  _ more _ about our increasing profit trend."

 

When the cold starts nipping at their fingertips, they pull away from you, but you think this is funny. You remove your boots, then your gloves, placing them off to the side, and start trying to handle your own pants. "This is not as attractive to those who do  _ not _ engage with businesstrolls nightly. Re-con-sid-er your approach."

 

"Is that sarcasm?"

 

"You have no proof."

 

"You're making  _ jokes? _ " They're delighted. Their shoes and skirt are forgotten in the fray, tossed to the side. "Shupaa, what  _ else _ did you get changed?"

 

"Nothing, formally," you dodge. "The only technological changes are the ones mentioned to you, briefly."

 

"So your leaving did it, then." As they ponder this, they forget they're still wearing tights. You point. They realize. "Right. But you left the lab, right? Did they really have that significant an impact on you? I've never seen you like this. Or... heard, I guess? You look the same!"

 

You hesitate only a moment before you remove your pants, but it buys you enough time to think of an adequate answer. "Perhaps you are correct. It is difficult to make this conclusion without evidence, however."

 

"Yeah, alright, you've got me. Maybe another time." They move into your space again, now that they're ready, and lift you once more. "Do you feel comfortable like this?"

 

"Yes." For once, a straight answer, but this one is important. You both like keeping your shirts on, each for your own reason. "And you?"

 

"Yes. I absolutely do." They swing you around in a half-turn, until they can rest you in the pailing pile, with your back to the cushioning. You check for the pail first, and, finding it within arm's reach, turn back just in time to see Pallas settling in, too. Even without distinct red feelings, there's a rush to your blood pusher from the proximity, and their breath on your skin. "Do you want to handle this?" they ask, fingertips touching the underwear at your hips.

 

You heed their suggestion, pushing it down, and they follow suit. Their skin is a familiar sight by now. Carefully, you press your fingers at their thighs, and they shiver as they kneel over you. It's important not to shock them with the cold of your touch. 

 

"Good," they murmur, after they've recovered. "That feels fine. Jesus... I always forget how cold you can get." 

 

"Would you prefer something warm-er?" You could get a toy instead. There are multiple approaches to this problem, and you've had to leverage them before.

 

They hum as they consider it. "No. Not yet. Let's... try this first?" It's hard to pail with you without liking the cold, at least to some degree. Pallas was the kind of partner who needed to  _ learn _ to like it. Now, though, they have trouble denying it. It only takes some adjustment.

 

You start at the outside of their soft, sensitive skin, working inwards. Every time Pallas gasps, you pause until they tell you to proceed. You press your fingertips into their soft folds, running over their nook first, then the sheath of their bulge. The chill is mild enough that nothing freezes, and their teal pre-material coats your fingers. You massage their sheath, with small, controlled circles. You keep your focus on that motion, trying dutifully to stay gentle, because you don't want to hurt them. You're just  _ really _ bad at "gentle." It pays off, though - between Pallas's few meager vocal responses, their bulge starts to peek out from its recess.

 

Pallas gets more breathy with each progression. You press one finger against the inside walls of their nook, feeling every ridge and bump in perfect clarity. Soft tissue presses back against your touch as their bulge swells inside them, fighting to push out of their body. By the time you add a second finger, it's at least halfway unfurled, and it shows no sign of stopping.

 

"You get better at this every time," they complain, flushed and flustered. When you withdraw your fingers, wanting to savor their arousal, they grind against you, where your nook has only started trailing jade.

 

"You are a good teacher," you joke in reply. But it's a good thing: They don't make you guess what they like. They just tell you.

 

The slit of their nook just barely kisses yours, and the tip of their bulge presses into your sheath, making  _ you _ the one to lose your breath for a moment. You're a methodical individual by nature. This is  _ not _ methodical. Sheathplay isn't exactly easy to maintain, but it's certainly an incentive. Your bulge practically rushes to push back against theirs, twining together even before it totally leaves your sheath. You pant, a cloud of frost falling over you, and Pallas just grins like they've struck gold.

 

"Are you okay?" they ask you anyway, showing mercy.

 

"Yes," you reply, through your embarrassment. You don't need much more than that, thankfully, because you're struggling for words. "Yes, this is ac-cep-ta-ble." The stutter of your words is worse when they've caught you off-guard, but they don't tease you, not yet.

 

They have more important things on their mind. Their slick, sea-green tentacle coils around yours, jade and, unlike the rest of you, actually  _ warm. _ None of your implants are connected to your reproductive organs, so as long as your overall body temperature isn't lowered, it remains at a normal jadeblood cool. Pallas is only slightly colder than you, a difference that feels delicious, and one you only really notice when they're wrapped around you and rubbing at all your sensitive spots. Teal and jade material mingle into some sort of middle green.

 

Naturally, though, this isn't enough. You could wrap bulges any day. For drone collections, you need something more potent. Where your bulges twist together, you use your fingers to redirect them, spinning a new coil that keeps them close without forming one unbroken cord of bulge. Then, with Pallas's permission, you press the tips into their dripping nook.

 

The reaction is always quick. Bulges seek warmth, and as soon as they find it, they're quick to take it. They burrow deep in the first few seconds, which always throws Pallas off. They fall onto their hands, their face close to yours, breathing heavily as you try not to move. One... two... three seconds pass. They remember to inhale.

 

"Okay," they manage. "Okay. This is fine."

 

Nooks are flexible. It's what they're made for. When your bulge, wrapped tight with theirs, slides out of their nook and then presses back in, you push against every ridge and fold each time, stretching and re-stretching the muscles there. Pallas tenses every so often, making their nook clench around your bulge, which does not make restraint any easier.

 

It  _ does _ mean that there is plenty of lubrication, steadily building up inside their nook and dripping onto you. With this, they're able to take over the back and forth motion, moving up and down on the bulges inside them at their own pace. The doubled bulk fills their nook more than they can handle, so they can't take you to the base, no matter how hard they try.

 

But, not one to be dissuaded, they try anyway. Emboldened by the steady pace, when they pull up, almost entirely off your bulge, they push back down with a fervor. It spreads blue-green in spatters on your thighs, and it makes them  _ keen. _ You suck in a sudden breath, which turns freezing cold in your mouth, but they don't stop. They do it again, huffing and gasping each time, until the pressure just becomes too much for them. Their nook clamps around you like a vice as they bear down on you, filling their nook with their own material as you feel their seedflap try to absorb it all. The cold rush overwhelms you even more, on top of the sudden grip, and you are soon to follow. Your combined material seeps into their genebladder, collecting into a lump, just visible in their abdomen.

 

" _ Fuck, _ " they whisper, not yet daring to move off your bulge.

 

You reach for the bucket. It's a balancing act, because you can't move too far from Pallas, but you can only  _ barely _ reach. You pull it close to them after a few moments of difficulty, and begin to sit up, supporting them with your knees. When they find their balance, they push themselves up, little by little, until your bulges come untangled and out of their nook. Blue-green material drips from everything.

 

You hold their hand as they steady themselves over the pail. Shuffling to a wall helps. They put their back to it, so they can face you, breathing hard and looking down. Their bulge can't retract yet, so it continues to sway in front of them, curling back on itself and rubbing its own length.

 

"If you are not prepared, this can wait." Not forever, you think, but for a time. The pressure might be uncomfortable, but the instability might be worse.

 

They exhale, pointedly looking anywhere but down. "No. I'm ready as I'll ever be."

 

One of your hands is already coated in material. This is the one you use to reach for their nook, again. As soon as you make contact, their bulge finds your wrist and wraps tight around it, trying to rub off its excess energy, but you don't help it right now. Instead, you finger their nook, slower than before. With your two fingers, then three, you massage their inside walls until they start to build up again. In order to release the stored material, you need to open their seedflap, which means they need to climax a second time.

 

It means stimulating a freshly-oversensitive part of them, which has always felt somewhat cruel. It means, at first, they can't tolerate more than the slowest motion, but now they're starting to enjoy it again. They whine with need, pressing down into your touch, though it's fruitless. Your fingers can't fill them up the way your bulge could, so there's little to be done. They shudder, trying to cling to the wall all the more. This is the hardest, most uncomfortable part of pailing, but you both need it.

 

Your fingers find a spot that makes them gasp, and you rub against it, again and again. Tension builds in their muscles but it doesn't release yet - until you grab their bulge with your one, clean hand, and hold it around the base. Then, all at once, they peak, feet stumbling as they try to stay up, and all the stored material spills into the pail from their nook. The sound against the metal could be mistaken for torrential rain, until finally, it peters out.

 

"It's always so weird," they complain, as you tuck your arms under their shoulders to lower them back to the pile. "Ugh... How much did we get?"

 

"Half," you reply. Pallas slumps back, defeated.

 

"Only  _ half? _ You mean we have to do this  _ again? _ "

 

"After rehydration, yes," you confirm. "You have lost significant moisture in this fashion."

 

"Yeah," they mumble, throwing an arm over their face. "In a minute..."

 

You leave to wash up first. Your bulge has slid back into its sheath, leaving mixed material on your thighs, but a washcloth fixes it easily. Once you've cleared yourself of most of the stickiness, you return for your pants, then slip on your gloves. When you return from the food preparation block with two cups of icewater, Pallas is still laying exactly as you left them.

 

You leave the cup beside them. "Drink."

 

"No." They pick up the cup and down a large gulp of water, then instantly regret it when they almost choke on ice. "Ow! Did you do that on purpose!"

 

"They are cubes," you point out. You aren't that precise with your ice formation. You were trained for speed, not art.

 

"Oh," Pallas says. "Sorry." They're more careful when they drink this time, and having sated their thirst for the moment, they put down the cup to reach for you.

  
  
"Don't be a stranger. If you're going to stay, stay with me."

 

You eye the mess on their thighs. Then you get up, only to walk  _ past  _ them, retrieve another washcloth, and  _ then _ sit with them.

  
  
"There is no wish to be ov-er-fam-il-iar," you explain, draping the washcloth over your fingers. "Do you mind...?"

  
  
They laugh. "I don't know if you can be  _ more _ overfamiliar with me, really, but... no, I'm not taking it the wrong way."

  
  
With their blessing, then, you clean the remainder of the mess. It's a short job, but it means you can stay near them more comfortably. You sit up straight. Pallas stays limp, and you sit in serene silence for a few more moments.

 

"D'you," they rasp. You lift their cup for them. They sigh, take a drink, and try again. "Do you... like this? You're hard to read. I can't ever tell, but if you don't, I want to fix that."

 

"Opinions are not relevant." You wall them off. They frown. Maybe that was the wrong answer.

 

"They're relevant to  _ me, _ " Pallas tells you. "I'm asking what you think. Please, Shupaa. I know this is hard, I know it's not what you usually say, but... try for me? I need to know."

 

How do you find an opinion? You don't know if you could recognize it now. Sometimes you think you have opinions, but you've become so used to concealing them that, at other times, you have trouble tracking one down. You certainly can't find one when you look for it.   
  


Pallas seems to notice you struggling, from the way you go quiet for several moments. They try a new approach. "Do you think our meetings are..." They search for a word. "Beneficial?"

 

"Yes." You can work with this. They smile.

 

"Can you explain?" they prompt.

 

"Objectively, these meetings fill the letter of the law, which preserves the lives of both parties. Additionally, social contact benefits the mental health of both parties, and sexual contact has been proven to assist as well."

 

This seems to ease their mind. They take the soiled washcloth from you, set it aside, and reach for your hand - but they wait for you to reciprocate. Kind. You let your hand fit neatly into theirs, and they beam.

  
  
"How do you feel afterwards? Can you answer that?"

  
  
You search for data. "Typical data recordings after meetings are cleaner, more efficient, and more positive than prior to said meetings. There are no negative effects."

  
  
"Good." They give your hand a small squeeze, and let it drop. "That's the goal. If this ever  _ stops _ benefitting you, don't stick with it. Honestly, that's good life advice for everything, but... we'll keep it short and sweet."

  
  
You record it, just as they say, and store it in your memory. "Noted." You say. You forget to thank them, but you don't forget to tap the rim of their cup. "You have not finished this water."

 

They roll their eyes, and mumble, "yeah, whatever" into their drink.


End file.
